The Return of the Raven
by HaloFin17
Summary: An excitable Raven, a cunning Dwarf, and a warning shot gone wrong all set into motion a new course of events for the Battle of Five Armies. AU for the third movie. I'm pretty much messing with everything here, but it all starts with Thranduil. Naturally. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **An excitable Raven, a cunning Dwarf, and a warning shot gone wrong all set into motion a new course of events for the Battle of Five Armies. AU for the third movie. I'm pretty much messing with everything here, but it all starts with Thranduil. Naturally. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own anything here. I'm just playing in the big literary sandbox that is Middle Earth.

**Author's Note: **I've had a couple of requests to write some kind of longer Thranduil fic, so here I go! Wish me luck, since I'm still not sure how long this will actually end up being. As you'll see, this one branches out to encompass pretty much the entire storyline, but Thranduil is still a driving force behind everything. And keeping true to the movies, Legolas won't arrive until later; but I promise, his coming will be crucial. Hope you enjoy, everyone!

**The Return of the Raven**

**Chapter 1**

Bilbo Baggins fidgeted from where he stood behind the Dwarves atop Erebor's fortified ramparts. One hand tapped impatiently against his thigh while the other hid in his pocket, idly twirling his magic ring between his fingers. Only by the grace of that mysterious trinket had he managed to return to his friends undetected after the previous night's excursions, but some greater Grace by far had intervened to save him from the Elven archers during his venture into Dale. The poor Hobbit had only been able to gulp when he'd learned that King Thranduil had given orders that very evening for any signs of life coming from the Lonely Mountain to be exterminated.

Now the Elvenking himself rode with grim determination through the ranks of his army to approach the Mountain's gates. Bard of Esgaroth accompanied him, although the antlers of Thranduil's great elk nearly obscured the Dragonslayer from Bilbo's sight. Soon enough, everyone present would know that Bard kept the invaluable Arkenstone hidden in his breast pocket.

Bilbo worked some moisture into his lips, chapped from the early winter winds. He'd told Gandalf that he wasn't afraid of how Thorin would react to seeing the Arkenstone in the hands of his perceived "enemies," but now that the actual moment of revelation was at hand, he found his confidence wavering. He could only hope he was right in the estimation of his Dwarvish friend.

Meanwhile, as he observed the two kings' advance, Thorin himself had taken up a bow and quiver and instructed his younger nephew, Kili, to do the same – only from a position of better cover to support him during the upcoming confrontation.

"I think a nice warning shot is what's called for here," the King under the Mountain declared to his companions. He drew his bow, preparing to send an arrow at the feet of Thranduil's elk and stop their approach.

But then, just as Thorin had the bow stretched back to its farthest point, a squawking flurry of black feathers descended directly in front of him. It was the Raven he had lately sent to the Iron Hills, flapping wildly with the excitement of its tidings from afar. While the other races often considered Ravens to be ill omens, those birds were actually close in friendship with the Dwarves of Erebor and had historically served as messengers between kingdoms. But today, even a Raven bearing good tidings out of the North also brought a certain doom along with it.

The bird's exuberant arrival could not have been more untimely. For Thorin started at its sudden appearance, and his bow shot without his direction or consent. And the arrow that was meant to be a warning shot lodged instead in the right side of King Thranduil's chest – slightly closer to the shoulder than his breast, and an inch or two below the collarbone. If Thorin had been intentionally aiming, he could have taken pride in such a shot.

The Elf's armor was as fine as any to be had in Middle Earth, but even it could not stop the direct shot of a sturdy Dwarvish arrow at close range. The dart sank in deep, though it failed to pierce through the back side of the armor. Thranduil's striking blue eyes flew wide open with sudden pain, and his elk mount moved backward a few steps at the impact. The entire corner of the world, looking on, held its breath as the mighty Elvenking struggled to breathe amidst the shock.

Even the other Dwarves upon the rampart stood watching in amazement, too stunned to react to the abrupt turn of events. Thorin froze in surprise himself for a fleeting moment, but he recovered his wits more quickly than the rest. Perceiving only one way to salvage the situation and stave off certain disaster until his reinforcements arrived, the Dwarf King set another arrow to his bow and aimed it unwaveringly at Thranduil's head.

"Hold!" Thorin's voice grew great indeed during that dark hour, and all could hear him clear as thunder. "If anyone approaches this gate or fires upon this Mountain, my next shaft will go between his eyes!"

The threat bought him some time, as intended, instilling widespread hesitation among the lines of angry, vengeful Elves.

"Kili, be ready," Thorin then whispered sidelong to his nephew, who was still better concealed behind the stone. "If any of these Elven archers manage to shoot me from afar, you must finish this standoff on my behalf."

"What?" Kili's bow wavered as he realized what was being asked of him. Thinking immediately of Tauriel, he protested, "Uncle, a wood-Elf just saved my life! I cannot shoot her King in cold blood…"

"And do you care more for that pretty she-Elf than you do your own inheritance? They came here to start a war! Who are we to shield them from the consequences? You are a Dwarf of Durin's bloodline, Kili. I know you won't disappoint me." All this Thorin said without taking his eyes off of the wounded Elf down below.

By now, Thranduil could no longer hold himself upright, and he had begun to slide off his mount in a daze. Even so, the King's eyes were like two seas roiling with a storm of unbridled fury, riveted upon Thorin Oakenshield through it all.

"My lord!" Bard saw his friend slipping and likewise dismounted, rushing around to help lower the Elf to the ground as gingerly as possible. He kept one arm wrapped around the monarch's back, even as the other resisted his support with all his waning strength.

"Thranduil?" The bowman made quick note of his ally's condition, and it wasn't promising.

The King's breathing was rapid and shallow, as though he couldn't quite catch his wind, and dark blood oozed out around the arrow shaft that remained lodged deep inside his torso. His complexion had always been fair and pale, as far as Bard could tell; but now that soft, snow-like pallor had assumed an ominous ashen hue.

Thranduil opened his mouth as though to speak, yet with his breath coming so short and sharp, he could articulate nothing beyond whispered expressions of discomfort. It was just as well, Bard thought. If that fell look in the Elf's eyes was any indicator, Thranduil might very well have ordered his army to attack the Mountain out of pure spite, had he been able to do so – never mind that his own life would be forfeit. Both of their lives, actually, at this point; for Bard couldn't imagine that he would come away from all of this any better off than his friend if the conflict escalated.

Bard had heard from multiple sources that Thranduil's own son, Legolas, was the finest archer in the Woodland Realm. Perhaps he could have managed a shot that would incapacitate Thorin in such a way as to prevent the Dwarf's second arrow from being loosed – a feat Bard doubted he himself could accomplish if he had his own bow. But the Prince was not here, and none of the other Elven soldiers would dare gamble with their King's life on such a risky shot.

The Dragonslayer felt his ire rising, protective and fierce, as it had not done since he'd stared down Smaug above the flaming ruins of Esgaroth. He had known all along that greed, above all else, drove Thorin toward this accursed Mountain; but he never would have dreamed that things could come to this. Especially not after Bard had ferried the Dwarves away from a pack of Orcs and later offered refuge to Thorin's own nephew when all others in Laketown had turned him away.

"I am done with Dwarves," he had declared that morning. If only he had stood by his own words!

Meanwhile, up on the rampart, Bilbo watched Balin raise his hand and step toward Thorin as though he wanted to speak out…only to decide against it. So the thoroughly mortified Hobbit took that particular burden onto his own small shoulders.

"Thorin, what are you doing?" he demanded, appealing to the nobility that he still believed to be buried underneath his friend's madness. "Thranduil is badly hurt; please, you must see reason and let him go back to his people for healing. That first shot was an accident, we all saw it when the Raven came; but you cannot hold an Elvenking hostage like this!"

"And yet that is exactly what I am doing," Thorin replied, not moved by Bilbo's entreating in the slightest. "If I let him leave, his army will slaughter us all. Now hold your tongue, Master Baggins. I will say it again, these affairs do not concern you."

That was all Bilbo needed to hear, and finally he could bear no more. Despairing at last, he quietly slipped away from his companions, repelled down the rocks as he had done the previous night, and went without ceremony to stand directly in front of Thranduil. He realized Thorin or Kili might still be able to hit their Elven target, but at least they no longer had a clear shot at him.

"Bilbo, what are you doing? Get out of the way!" The Dwarves' worried cries rained down on him from up high, and Bilbo could discern Bofur's and Fili's voices above all the others. No doubt they feared that even Thorin's affection for Bilbo would not suffice to stay his hand at this time; perhaps they were right.

But Bilbo ignored them all; he stayed where he was, with his back facing the Mountain and his friends. Bard just stared at him in mute wonder. Thranduil acknowledged him with his first intelligible words since sustaining the injury.

"You fool," the Elf hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes blazing. "Move!"

The Hobbit responded with a quick shake of his head. "No, my lord. I don't see how battle can possibly be avoided now, and if I am destined to die here today, then I will do so in the defense of an Elvenking."

The Baggins half of him wanted to tremble at those bold words, but they made his Tookish heart soar! Tears brimmed up into his eyes unbidden, as did the unhappy feeling of guilt in his stomach; he simply couldn't shake the feeling that he was responsible for what had happened in an indirect sort of way. He had only wanted to do what was best for everyone when he'd crept away from the Mountain last night! How had it all gone so terribly wrong?

"I am so sorry." Bilbo's voice nearly choked, but he still forced the words to come.

Thranduil didn't offer any response, although it didn't matter when Thorin's booming voice echoed above them once again.

"Stay where you are, Wizard, or I swear I will kill him!"

"Gandalf?" Bilbo jerked his head up, scanning the ranks with mounting hope and releasing a sigh of relief when he caught sight of that blessedly familiar hat.

Indeed, Gandalf the Grey had arrived. He had pressed in haste to the front of the Elven lines before Thorin's threats compelled him to halt, and now he would try his luck no further.

"What are you doing, Thorin Oakenshield?" the Istari reprimanded sternly. Concern showed plainly across his aged features. "You have injured a powerful neighbor who should have been your ally, not your enemy!"

"They marched against my kingdom first! You know we did not come here to kill Elves, Gandalf – only to reclaim what is rightfully ours."

"You are not making a very splendid figure as King under the Mountain; your forefathers would be ashamed for the disgrace you've brought upon their homeland. Now stop this madness before there is further bloodshed!"

"There is no stopping the war now, Wizard. We are past all negotiations!"

"And isn't that a pity." Bard stood up then, taking the Arkenstone out of his inside pocket and holding it aloft like a beacon in the night for all to see.

**Author's End Note: **That scene with Bard and Thranduil at the gate has been begging me to write an AU ever since I first saw it! Took me a while to come up with something worthwhile, but I am really quite excited with the vision I have for this story. Thanks for taking this first step in the journey along with me!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **An excitable Raven, a cunning Dwarf, and a warning shot gone wrong all set into motion a new course of events for the Battle of Five Armies. AU for the third movie. I'm pretty much messing with everything here, but it all starts with Thranduil. Naturally. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own anything here. I'm just playing in the big literary sandbox that is Middle Earth.

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone for your enthusiastic support of this story's beginning! Now we're off to Chapter 2 - in which a few unexpected parties arrive, and Dain says some very unkind things. Hope you enjoy!

**The Return of the Raven**

**Chapter 2**

Even under a grey sky, the rainbow heart of the Arkenstone shimmered like fire rippling in the wind; and Bard knew he had everyone's full attention now – including Thorin's, if only for a brief moment. He rotated the jewel in his hand a few times to emphasize its dazzling magnificence.

"We had come to negotiate the return of _this _– but now the only way you'll have it back is by force of arms! Even if you kill all three of us down here, it will do no good. Any Dwarf who comes to recover this stone from our bodies will be turned into a pincushion of Elvish arrows the instant he sets foot outside that Mountain!"

Bard spared a quick glance down at Thranduil, rather suspecting that his immortal ally would not be pleased at how easily he had offered up their lives; instead, the Elvenking rewarded him with a look of dark satisfaction, silently approving the show of bravado.

"That stone belongs to the King!" shouted one indignant Dwarf from the ramparts, and Bard recognized the voice of Kili. The same voice he had heard screaming in agony inside his home just a few short days prior.

The bowman called back in answer, "I see no King deserving of it! Unless it be this King here whom you have greeted so cruelly." He tucked the gem back inside his pocket then, depriving his jealous audience of its light.

"Do you think to trick me?" Thorin's voice had dropped to an even deeper pitch, and now there truly was a murderous edge to his words. "The Arkenstone lies hidden within these halls! There is no possible way you could have come by it."

"Actually, there is. I gave it to them." Bilbo at last turned around and tilted his head back so he could see Thorin's face, contorted as it was by shock and rage.

The Hobbit nervously clenched and unclenched his small fists as he explained, "I did find the Arkenstone the first time I went inside the Mountain, and there have been many times since then that I wanted to give it to you. But you've changed, Thorin. The Dwarf I met at Bag End would never have gone back on his word or doubted the loyalty of his kin. Now just look at what's happened around you! I traveled for months in the company of the true Thorin Oakenshield, and I would gladly have entrusted the Arkenstone to him. But he is not here, so I kept the stone until I could do with it what was truly best for all."

Thorin's fury was like a beast come alive, so much that Bilbo thought surely he could feel it creeping down the stone wall to devour him. But in reality, the enraged Dwarf King stood caught in a device of his own making. He could not afford to waste his arrow on Bilbo, for the Elven archers would be quick to take advantage of the slightest lapse on his part. Thranduil must remain his target at all cost.

"Bring down the traitor!" the son of Thrain bellowed instead. "Someone shoot that worthless Shire-rat!"

Bilbo's breath froze in his lungs, his heart suddenly racing as though it could outrun this unhappy ending. While his chest and shoulders would be well-protected by the _mithril _shirt he still wore, it wouldn't be of much help to his head or the rest of his exposed limbs. He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the worst…but no arrows came. No other Dwarf could harden his heart enough to harm the Hobbit who had bravely delivered them from more than one hopeless situation throughout their journeys together, and not even Thorin's fervor would sway them.

Bard breathed a soft sigh of relief behind him, the bargeman having resumed his previous place down at Thranduil's side. "It would seem you still have some friends up there after all, Master Baggins."

But before Bilbo could likewise express his gratitude for that fact, a great cloud of dust rose up in the east, and his keen hearing now detected the commotion of many feet marching in unison. Heavily-armored feet, by the sound of it. All eyes turned, and amidst the cheers of Thorin's company, a host of Dwarves fully prepared for battle appeared on the horizon.

Of all things, their leader sat astride a huge, bristle-faced war pig; the beast trotted forward until its rider was given a clear view of the scene before him. A few tense heartbeats passed, and then the Dwarf Lord had the gall to laugh.

"Nice shooting, Cousin!" he exclaimed with glee, addressing Thorin. "I see ye've pinned yourself a pretty woodland peacock there. Let me know when you're ready to pluck his feathers!"

The entire Dwarven army jeered along with their commander, spurred on by his obvious lust for Elvish blood; and Bard's stomach churned, horrified, as he listened to them. This situation had rapidly escalated far beyond what any of them had been expecting!

Next to him, Thranduil silently raised his chin in a poor attempt at defiance. Even with the shock of his injury wearing off and the full extent of the pain settling in, the King's wan face radiated with hatred so intense that Bard almost backed away involuntarily at the sight. And underneath it all, buried down so deep that Bard would never have noticed if he hadn't been side by side with the Elf…a burning, wretched shame. Could it be that some part of Thranduil's great loathing was directed at himself?

The Dragonslayer leaned in even closer to his friend, whispering fiercely, "Whatever else may come today, my lord, I swear you will not become the object of sport for any Dwarf!"

It was as though his words had released the tension in a coiled spring, and some of the rigidity left Thranduil's shoulders as he finally allowed himself to lean sideways against the bowman's supportive frame. This near, Bard winced at how harsh the Elvenking's breathing had become; blood now trickled in a steady stream down his shining breastplate to drip onto the rocks below.

Meanwhile, King Thranduil's herald, Galion, had temporarily taken charge and repositioned the right flank of the Elven army so that his soldiers were now facing the Dwarven force head-on, prepared for the charge that seemed sure to come at any moment. However, he was clearly reluctant to redirect his troops' focus elsewhere as long as their wounded monarch remained a hostage before Erebor's gate.

Gandalf moved with the Elven soldiers, pushing forward among them until he was face-to-face with the Dwarven newcomer. "Lord Dain of the Iron Hills!"

"Gandalf the Grey," the other growled. "Have ye come to watch a nice bloodbath here today?"

"There is no need for war amongst the free nations of Middle Earth! Tell your people to stand down, and let us all discuss this together like decent, rational folk."

Dain sneered. "I'll not stand down before any Elf. That faithless sprite has got what he's long deserved for his ill wishes toward my kin, and by my beard, he'll not be the only one of his kind to die by a Dwarvish hand now!"

Gandalf had to wait until Dwarves' collective cheers subsided before trying again. "My lord, there is a vast army of Orcs marching against this Mountain as we speak, and your ire would be far better spent on them. Surely they will be upon us soon!"

Sure enough, as if on cue, the ground beneath their feet started to rumble; and soon an entire host of dark creatures emerged from under the earth, the passageways having been cleared for them by a handful of monstrous Worms. Elves all but forgotten now, Dain raised his great hammer and shouted for his followers to form up in a defensive stand between the Orc hordes and Mountain of their people.

And high above on Erebor's ramparts, Thorin finally lowered his bow, his gaze drawn to these new foes who wished for nothing more than to see his own destruction. As it was, the Dwarf King's death would have come at that very instant, if not for Dwalin's quick thinking. He grabbed Thorin by the arm and yanked him down to safety behind the stone, even as a dozen Elvish arrows came flying to take advantage of his distraction.

Thranduil himself had also been watching for such an opportunity. He stood up under his own power now, much to Bard's surprise, only to sway unsteadily as soon as he had gained his feet. His face contorted in pain, the Elvenking cradled his right arm close against his chest and leaned heavily upon his mortal ally. Bard supported the extra weight as best he could, though he feared to move too quickly or suddenly. For even if Thorin's arrow hadn't pierced Thranduil's lung, it must still have come perilously close to doing so; and in either case, too much jostling could easily worsen the King's condition.

Without a rider, Bard's horse had spooked and bolted at the Orcs' appearance; but the faithful elk still hovered nearby, snorting and stamping its hooves impatiently. Then, in a display of far greater intelligence than Bard would ever have deemed possible, the animal knelt down in front them to better facilitate the task at hand. Bard managed to help Thranduil onto his mount's back, but clearly the Elf lacked both the strength and balance necessary to ride unaided. And though he knew time was of the utmost importance, Bard hesitated.

Thranduil alone in his company rode an elk; all of the other Elves whom Bard had seen rode horses. The course of action before him seemed obvious…but would this steed suffer another rider that was not its royal master? Praying the elk would somehow comprehend the necessity of the situation, Bard climbed on behind his friend – which meant he was essentially shielding the Elf's body with his own now, should the Dwarves decide to follow through on their threat. But that idea did not trouble him. His people would be starving and hopeless right now if not for the Elvenking's assistance; surely this was the least he could do now to repay some portion of that kindness.

The Elven lines parted to make way for their retreat, and Galion rushed to intercept them, his ageless face betraying a myriad of worries. "My lord!"

"Fall back to the city," Thranduil grit out once his herald was near enough to discern the orders. "Defensive positions. Let the Dwarves protect their own Mountain!"

Galion moved on at once to relay his King's command to the rest of the army, and the elk again darted forward. Having been born and raised on a lake, Bard possessed limited experience on horseback, and he considered himself to be only a passable rider at best. While the elk's slow lope hadn't felt much different from that of a horse, the rhythm of its full gallop threw Bard off-balance at first. How embarrassing if he should fall off! Thankfully, he recovered and maintained his seat.

The bargeman kept his arms wrapped low around Thranduil's waist to best hold him in place as they rode, wary of accidentally jarring the arrow in his torso any more than was unavoidable. The Elf leaned back against his companion, his breathing ragged, but somehow he kept his head held high. Bard could only attribute it to that same pride which allowed Thranduil to be as stubborn as any Dwarf when he so desired. The elk apparently knew where to go once they had passed inside Dale's walls, maneuvering through the maze of streets and delivering them back to Thranduil's tent without the smallest prompting from its riders.

"Help us! Elves of Mirkwood, your King is wounded!"

A small crowd of healers responded immediately to Bard's calls. Some of them congregated around the elk while others went scurrying to make preparations and fetch supplies. Bard helped ease Thranduil down into their waiting arms and then dismounted himself. He took special care to pat the elk on the neck has he passed by, vowing to himself that he would find a more suitable way to reward the steadfast animal later on.

He hung back for a while, uncertain, before his concern finally drove him to follow the healers inside the tent; no doubt they would ask him to leave if his presence became a hindrance. In the meantime, he found it impressive to watch how the Elves worked with speed and efficiency, but nothing resembling panic, even with the life of their King hanging in the balance. And not for the first time in recent hours, Bard wished desperately that he understood Elvish!

He really should be leaving now, returning to his people who needed his leadership more than ever; but it seemed wrong to just leave his ailing friend when he'd no idea if they would ever see each other alive again. Bard stood for what seemed like an eternity, feeling torn and utterly helpless as he watched the stain of blood around the Elvenking grow ever larger.

But Thranduil himself actually noticed the lingering bowman near the tent entrance. Worried brown eyes met icy blue, and the immortal monarch offered a short nod as though to indicate that Bard's work here was finished.

Bard blinked and shook his head as though awoken from a dream. "You will be safe here, my friend," he assured the other earnestly. "I promise, the enemy will not reach you."

But even as he moved to depart, the Dragonslayer abruptly stopped, turned back around, and reverently laid the Arkenstone on the table like Bilbo had done the night before. He almost chuckled.

"After all, as the Dwarves say, it belongs to the King."

Thranduil managed a grim smile at that, despite his pain, and Bard raced back out to join the battle.

**Author's End Note:** I had originally planned for Legolas to make into the this chapter, but it just didn't quite pan out that way. Chapter 2 decided it was ready to end here, and now Legolas will have to wait until Chapter 3. But he will be there, I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary: **An excitable Raven, a cunning Dwarf, and a warning shot gone wrong all set into motion a new course of events for the Battle of Five Armies. AU for the third movie. I'm pretty much messing with everything here, but it all starts with Thranduil. Naturally. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own anything here. I'm just playing in the big literary sandbox that is Middle Earth.

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter! Particularly the "guest" reviewers to whom I couldn't reply individually. Now we've arrived at the "Battle Chapter," which I kind of dreaded writing. Forgive me for not going into blow-by-blow detail of the fights, but I figured the movie gave us plenty of that stuff. The purpose of this fanfic is to develop otherwise-neglected characters and relationships, so most of my creative energies have gone in that direction. Brace yourselves, as plenty of twists and turns now lie ahead.

**The Return of the Raven**

**Chapter 3**

The Men of Laketown accompanied their Elven allies in the retreat back to Dale; Gandalf and Bilbo followed in that wake as well, albeit with considerably more concern for the besieged Dwarves whom they had left behind. Dain's soldiers had come together beneath a turtle-like shell of shields and spears, bracing themselves for the Orcs' initial onslaught.

"Gandalf," panted an anxious Bilbo when they were inside the city, "shouldn't you go after Thranduil?"

"He is in good hands, and I doubt he's particularly anxious to see me right now," answered the Wizard. "Besides, I will be needed much more here. Azog may hate the Dwarves above all others, but he will not overlook Dale as long as Elves and Men defend it. Stay close to me, my good Hobbit, and perhaps that uncanny 'luck' of yours will be with us once again."

True to Gandalf's prediction, it wasn't long before Azog the Defiler sent a wave of troops to assail the city walls; he met stiff resistance, with the Elves of the Greenwood already waiting for him in full force. Outside of Dale, the battle progressed less happily for the Dwarves, who were grossly outnumbered. Although hard-pressed, Dain's company held fast before the gates of Erebor until Thorin and his compatriots finally emerged to shift the momentum.

"Thorin!" the Lord of the Iron Hills greeted his relative with exuberance. "There's too many of these Orc bastards! I tell ye, I'd rather be bashing Elves right now, but we'll take what's in front of us. Have ye got a plan?"

Thorin embraced him on the field of battle. "Aye – we're going to take out their leader."

"Then I'm with you, Cousin! No kinsman of mine is going into that hell-hole without my help!"

Dain's giant pig had been killed by this point, so he and Thorin climbed upon more sure-footed rams for the journey to Ravenhill – as did Dwalin, Fili, and Kili. Due to Balin's being the most experienced in battle, he was left in charge of the Dwarves during their lords' absence. All prayed it would only prove a temporary absence.

"Gandalf, look now!" Bilbo cried out in wonder from afar. The Istari followed his gaze to behold five Dwarves steadily scaling the rocks up toward Azog's position on Ravenhill's summit.

"The King and his kin are going to put an end to this once and for all," he deduced with no small degree of pride. "If they succeed, the day will surely be ours!"

"Gandalf!"

Bilbo didn't immediately recognize the anxious voice that broke into their conversation, but the Wizard apparently did.

"Legolas Greenleaf…"

The Elven Prince and his red-haired companion both dismounted from their horse and rushed over, putting a quick end to whatever else Gandalf might have meant to offer in greeting.

"Gandalf, Bolg leads a second army, marching out of Gundabad in the North. They are only moments behind us."

Bilbo looked around frantically, as though he expected this new host to rise up out of the ground behind him. "Well, that's just…wonderful. Which way is north?"

With dread in his eyes, Gandalf slowly turned to indicate the proper direction.

"Ravenhill?" the Hobbit exclaimed. "But that's where Thorin is going – and Fili and Kili, they're all up there now!"

At the mention of Kili's imminent peril, Tauriel at once stepped forward around her Prince. "Then they must be warned," she declared with unshakeable intent. "We cannot leave them, or they will soon be overrun!"

Legolas looked ready to agree…until he spied an equally familiar face running up behind her.

"Prince Legolas!" Galion looked more relieved than his commander had ever seen him. "My lord, the army awaits your orders."

Legolas stood stunned as a veritable tidal wave of implications washed over him in those few words; but one fact thankfully stood out high above all the others: Galion had still addressed him as "Prince."

"Where is my father?"

The herald's frown deepened. "He is injured, my lord. Shot down by that faithless Oakenshield before the battle was even joined."

Unnoticed by her companions, Tauriel paled at the revelation. The developing romance between herself and Kili had never had much hope of obtaining the blessing of their respective peoples; but if Thorin truly had shot King Thranduil, then any relationship between an Elf and a Dwarf would not only be discouraged, but strictly forbidden. Perhaps it was just as well, then, that she had been banished.

"But he didn't mean to! It was an accident, I swear!" Bilbo interjected loudly in defense of his friend. "Thorin only intended for it to be a warning shot, but then that Raven came and startled him just as he was shooting."

Galion's stony expression showed that he wasn't at all convinced. Legolas listened grimly, then demanded, "But where is the King now? And how badly is he hurt?"

"He is here at his camp in the city," Galion supplied. "So far, we have held off the invading Orcs from reaching that far into the interior. Healers are tending to him as we speak. The arrow struck him in the upper chest – not an immediately fatal shot, but I cannot guess how severe the internal damage might be."

He and Tauriel both watched their Prince expectantly, but Legolas said nothing. Instead, he stood deep in thought, considering his options. There could be no room for individual heroics on his part now – not when his father's life was still at stake, and he had suddenly found himself responsible for an entire army.

Sensing the Elf's dilemma, Bilbo spoke up and volunteered to go warn Thorin himself. "The Orcs won't see me," he said to placate Gandalf's concerns; and then he was gone.

"Will the Halfling outdo us in acts of courage?" Tauriel berated her friend incredulously. "If we stay here and do nothing, the Dwarves will be slaughtered!"

The young Sylvan Elf had no patience for this! Thranduil may have been injured, but he was surrounded even now by throngs of loyal subjects who would gladly die to defend his life. Who would protect Kili in that same way, if not her? And with the enemy closing in, he was rapidly running out of time.

Even so, Legolas remained indecisive. He knew Tauriel was right, of course, and surely it would be to the greater good of all races if the Dwarves were given assistance – even if Thorin _had_ wounded his father, intentionally or otherwise. But he also realized that he could not abandon a leaderless army behind him; nor could he afford to pull any large part of his forces out of Dale. The city was still hard under siege, its defenses already penetrated in several places now. The Men of Laketown, led by Bard the Dragonslayer, fought bravely; but their numbers were few, and they would be quickly annihilated without continued Elvish support. Furthermore, any decision that jeopardized Dale would also mean a sharp decrease in Thranduil's limited protection…and Legolas did not dare leave his King so vulnerable.

Finally, he reached a decision. He may not particularly like it, but it was the best he could do in the present moment.

"You there! Come, gather around me!"

A small contingent of half a dozen Elvish soldiers had been fighting nearby, and now they responded as one to their Prince's call.

He commanded them, "You will accompany Captain Tauriel to Ravenhill and follow her orders explicitly. Do you understand?"

He expected immediate nods, but instead the soldiers all hesitated, exchanging nervous glances with one another. Tauriel understood perfectly well that their misgivings had nothing to do with cowardice.

"Legolas," she began with sudden timidity. "Remember, I have been banished. I have no authority here anymore."

"So says my father. But the army is subject to _me_ now, and I say your position is reinstated until this battle is either lost or won. If my father disagrees, he can vent his displeasure on me – provided he and I are both alive when this is all over. Now go, all of you! Do what you can to help the Dwarves."

At those last words, the Elven soldiers' resistance doubled. Why should they leave their comrades behind to go help the Dwarf who had shot their King?

Seeing them balk once again, Legolas explained, "The Dwarves are our allies against a common enemy in this battle, regardless of whatever else has happened here today."

"With all due respect, my lord," the boldest Elf challenged him, "you were not there at the gate this morning, when our 'ally' held your father's life hostage."

Legolas hadn't realized that; still, he couldn't back down now in front of his subordinates. Firmly, slowly, he reiterated, "You will go to Ravenhill, Soldier of Mirkwood. That is your Prince's order."

The defiant soldier drew in a sharp breath as though to prolong the argument, but he wisely reined in his tongue. He and his fellows would obey, even if with reluctance.

"I'm sorry I cannot go with you myself," Legolas then said to Tauriel.

She bowed her head to him. "I understand; you are the Prince, and our people need you here. Thank you for everything, _mellon-nin_."

He reached out and clasped her arm in farewell. "We will hold the defenses here, I swear it. The strength of the Valar go with you!"

* * *

Disappointment and frustration reigned on Ravenhill. Thorin and his entourage had reached their destination in safety, but now the Defiler was nowhere to be found. While Thorin's first instinct was to send his nephews to scout out the tunnels in search of their enemy, he yielded to Dain's judgment that it would not be wise to split up until they knew Azog's location for certain.

Then Bilbo Baggins appeared, seemingly out of thin air, with his warning about the second Orc army.

"We are so close!" Dwalin lamented bitterly. "That scum is still in there. If we wait long enough, he's bound to show himself again when this new army comes."

Now Thorin was inclined to flee – to cut their losses and "live to fight another day," as he put it. But Kili would hear none of that. At his urging, Dwarves and Hobbit alike agreed to stay and see their mission through to completion. And no sooner had Dwalin spotted the Goblin vanguard of Bolg's army, than Azog himself reappeared at a point high above them.

They quickly decided that Dwalin and Bilbo would stay put to deal with the oncoming Goblins, while Dain and Thorin ascended in one direction, and Fili and Kili the opposite. The goal was to cut off Azog's retreat, so that he would have to pass by one of their groups on the way down.

Few things could have distracted the two Dwarven brothers as they fought side-by-side in perfect harmony – but Tauriel's voice was one of them. While her companions hurried to intercept the swarming Orcs of Bolg's host, Tauriel herself thought only of Kili. She called his name several times, efficiently dispatching any enemies that happened across her path. Her cries did indeed reach the young Dwarf Prince…but they also attracted Bolg himself.

Their personal battle began, and it didn't take Tauriel long to realize that she was seriously outmatched. She shouted to Kili again, this time as a plea for help, and he answered. Kili ran in to join the fight with a cry, his brother following close behind. Fili certainly didn't feel the same attachment to Tauriel as his sibling did; but he freely admitted that he owed his little brother's life to this Elven warrior, and he wasn't about to let the two of them stand against Bolg alone.

But even together, they couldn't bring down that monster of an Orc. Frankly, it was challenging enough just to keep each other alive! Even Fili and Tauriel gladly risked life and limb for one another, motivated more by their shared love for Kili than anything else. But something drastic would have to change, or at this rate, none of them would survive.

* * *

Meanwhile, back on the main battlefield outside Dale, a deafening roar announced the coming of the Skin-changer. Beorn fell upon the rear of the first Orc army with unrivaled fury, and none could stand against his devastation, not even the largest war beasts. In Bear form, he easily cleared a bloody path through their ranks to arrive at the front lines – where he then came face-to-face with the Dwarves.

Even with the battle still raging, most of Dain's folk stopped and stared in terror at the huge animal that now stood studying them, baring his teeth threateningly. The Dwarves of Thorin's company, however, recognized that this could only be the same Bear that had grudgingly given them shelter and supplies. It seemed so long ago now. And while they knew Beorn had little love for Dwarves in general, he hated Orcs far more.

Balin then stepped forward out of the ranks, as boldly as he dared. He stopped at once when the Bear growled at him, and the aged Dwarf bowed low.

"Thorin and his sister-sons have gone to Ravenhill," he declared, not knowing if his words would even be understood. "If there is anything you can do, please go help him! Azog is there as well."

Beorn didn't need to hear anything else, as the mere mention of the Defiler was enough to arouse the Bear's battle fever even further. He had a personal score to settle with that fiend, after all. The Skin-changer turned toward Ravenhill and tore back through the Orc host like an oar cutting through still water.

* * *

Kili could scarcely see through the tears as he ducked under Bolg's next swing. That would be his undoing now, never mind his weary and battered body. When his brother had fallen, it had spurred Kili on to fight with renewed passion and hatred for his foe. But now Tauriel was gone as well, and it was all too much for him to bear.

The three of them _should_ have been enough to defeat a single Orc, even a chieftain of this size; but Bolg had broken Tauriel's bow early in the confrontation, and she simply wasn't the same warrior without it. Then she and Fili had both died trying to protect their loved one. Not only had Kili failed to repay them in kind, but now he was about to render their sacrifice moot with his own death! In a way, it didn't even matter to him now whether he lived or died. For what point would there honestly be in living, without these two who had been dearest to him?

That brief flirting with resignation gave Bolg exactly the opportunity he needed, and his next blow knocked Kili clear off his feet to land breathless on his back. The Orc stood over his final victim, savoring the moment before raising his weapon to deliver the killing blow. But the blade never fell. It was Bolg's own head, rather, that hit the ground after having been ripped off his shoulders by a snarling Beorn.

Kili gasped in surprise and genuinely feared for his own life in that next moment, so insatiable was the bloodlust seething in the Bear's eyes; but Beorn left him there without another glance and went on his way to pursue additional Orcs.

The surviving Dwarf stood up on wobbly legs; Fili and Tauriel lay on opposite sides of the ledge where they had all been fighting. Which body should he go to first? The two people he cared for most in all the world – both dead because of him. Torn by guilt so sharp it was physically painful, he looked back and forth helplessly until his trembling legs finally give out underneath him.

Kili collapsed to the snow between the corpses and sobbed.

* * *

Thorin's own battle with Azog, taking place at the same time, had not gone much better. He and Dain had been separated for a time after the appearance of Azog's guards, so that the Defiler and the Dwarf King had been forced to fight in single combat. Their much-anticipated duel eventually led the combatants out onto a frozen lake, which was where Dain found them. By that time, even Thorin's impressive strength was failing, and Azog scored a blow with his prosthetic arm that pierced the Dwarf squarely in the middle of his chest.

"Thorin, no!"

Upon hearing his kinsman's anguished cry close by, Thorin firmly shoved aside all thoughts of pain coming from the blade still embedded in his torso. With dogged determination that would have made his forefathers proud, he pushed himself forward so that the scimitar limb ran all the way out his back – but in doing so, he had closed in on Azog and knocked him off his feet, pinning the Orc down and immobilizing his false limb for just long enough.

Azog had no chance to recover before Dain smashed his miserable head to smithereens against the ice. The Lord of the Iron Hills then drew Thorin off of his foe as gingerly as possible, yet he hardly had time to grieve before his cousin sent him away with one last command.

"Go," the King urged even as he gasped and struggled for breath. "Find Fili…and Kili. Tell me…if…they live."

Entirely too much blood melted the ice beneath Thrain's son already, and Dain knew his wounds had no hope for healing. So with a deep bow of consent, he turned and hastened to fulfill his kinsman's dying wish.

"Thorin!"

That was Bilbo's voice now – raw with worry and sorrow in spite of how poorly their last encounter had ended. When a handful of Elves had arrived to help Dwalin, the Hobbit had branched out on his own in hopes of finding Thorin. Perhaps, if he was very lucky indeed, he might be able to distract Azog with an expertly-thrown rock or two. But he had come too late, and now he slid his way across the ice to join his fallen comrade, heedless of the blood dripping from a cut on his own forehead.

"Hold on, Thorin," he whispered, clutching in vain at the Dwarf's hand. "The Eagles are coming, do you see?"

That much was true, but this time, the great birds could do nothing to help these two friends. For the Halls of Death beckoned and would not long be denied their latest prize. There remained time for only a mournful exchange of farewells, along with an apology that extended to Bilbo alone.

Thorin Oakenshield, the King under the Mountain, passed his final moments in the company of a Hobbit-turned-burglar, with a host of Eagles flying high overhead. And by the time Dain returned with his sad tidings, only the bitterly-weeping Hobbit remained to hear him.

**Author's End Note: **I really wanted to set things right by the book, allowing Dain to kill Azog and Beorn to kill Bolg. I also considered altering Thorin's death speech to include an apology to Thranduil - but I don't think Thorin's really, truly sorry about what happened. Just like I don't think Thranduil would be really, truly sorry if he happened to lop off Dain's head before the Orcs arrived. A Legolas-centric chapter is up next, and hopefully I'll have it ready with similar speed. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary: **An excitable Raven, a cunning Dwarf, and a warning shot gone wrong all set into motion a new course of events for the Battle of Five Armies. AU for the third movie. I'm pretty much messing with everything here, but it all starts with Thranduil. Naturally. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own anything here. I'm just playing in the big literary sandbox that is Middle Earth.

**Author's Note: **Thanks again for all the reviews on the last chapter, especially those of you discovered this story for the first time! And since today is my friend **Trollmela's **birthday, this chapter is being posted in her honor. Happy Birthday, my dear! I hope you and everyone else enjoy the Legolas angst to come.

**The Return of the Raven**

**Chapter 4**

With the Eagles' arrival, the battle was well in-hand (or "in-talon," rather), and Legolas at last seized an opportunity to slip away. Weariness gnawed at him, both physically and mentally, after a long day of leading his people in battle; emotionally, he simply hadn't allowed the gravity of recent events to catch up with him yet. No doubt the time for that would come when he learned the full extent of the carnage – beginning with his father.

No guard or healer stopped him from entering the King's tent when he arrived there, but he saw no sign of Thranduil. He must have been on the other side of the tent's divider, where all was disarmingly quiet. Legolas wished he knew whether to interpret that as a good or a bad sign.

"Prince Legolas," the chief healer greeted him softly.

Once again, the title of "Prince" was promising.

"How fares my father?" He tried, and probably failed, to subdue the worry in his voice.

The healer's countenance remained severe, although thankfully not sorrowful, as he divulged, "The wound is clean but deep, and it causes him great pain now that the arrow is removed. The shot damaged a rib upon entering, but his lung has escaped blessedly intact."

At that news, relief escaped Legolas in a rush of air. "May I see him, then?"

A shake of the head denied his request, the healer confessing, "His injury would have been easier to treat if the arrow had passed all the way through his body; and it very nearly did so, but his armor prevented it. The shaft could not be removed without cutting open the entire wound and causing significantly more damage; so instead, we deemed it best to push the arrow the rest of the way out his back ourselves and then break the shaft to withdraw it from both ends. We had to administer some herbs to sedate him during the procedure, and he is still unconscious under their effects now. I am sorry, but I must ask you to return at a later time."

Legolas knew the structure of an arrow better than he understood the anatomy of a body; but with that limited knowledge, he agreed wholeheartedly that an arrow lodged so deep could not simply be pulled out the same way it had gone in – not if it was barbed at all, which Dwarven arrows typically were. The healers had indeed done what they had believed would most benefit their patient. Of course, he would rather not contemplate the graphic details for very long; and now it irked him more than ever that they wouldn't let him at least _see _Thranduil, even if he was sleeping.

His distress must have shown, for the healer sought once more to appease him. "We are monitoring his progress very closely at all times, and if there is a change in his condition, I promise we will inform you at once. My lord, your father has lost a good deal of blood, and your concern for him is more than justified. Yet the King has always been strong, and in my years, I have seen other Elves recover from injuries more severe than his. Rest assured, I am hopeful for his complete recovery, in time."

Legolas just sighed; he would have to content himself with that for now, as there was nothing else to be said or done here. But in the meantime, there was someplace else he needed to visit.

* * *

Even the Ravens kept their silence now, in the gloom surrounding Ravenhill. Legolas stepped sideways to avoid yet another Orc carcass in his path, all the while searching for signs of his countrymen. He eventually found all six of his soldiers, not including Tauriel, fallen close together in the pristine snow – all of them dead. They must have stayed near one another to the bitter end, each refusing to abandon his comrades even in the midst of a hopeless battle. A battle into which Legolas himself had sent them.

A cold hand of guilt closed the Elven warrior's throat. He should have known they didn't really have much hope of returning, outnumbered as they were; maybe he had deliberately chosen to ignore that premonition. As Prince of the realm, he was accustomed to personally leading a charge into the fray, and very rarely did all of those who followed him come away unscathed. But this was a different weight now, a new sort of responsibility that settled heavily upon his shoulders. These soldiers clearly had not wanted to go to Ravenhill, yet they had gone because Legolas had ordered them to do so – even though he himself would not be sharing in the danger.

He stopped over the body of the soldier who had spoken out against his orders earlier that day, and the snow felt colder than usual against his legs as he knelt to carefully close the Elf's lifeless eyes. The words "I'm sorry" lingered on his tongue, only to die there a moment later. There was no point; an apology would not return this soul to life. Now, he could only hope that Tauriel had fared better.

A strange noise reached Legolas' ears then – weeping, or perhaps even a muffled wailing. The Prince rose and silently followed the sound, only to stumble upon the young Dwarven archer, one of Thorin's kinsmen. He lay sobbing between two bodies, clinging to one with each arm: a blonde Dwarf, whose body had obviously been dragged to its current resting place, and also…

"Tauriel!"

Legolas rushed over without a thought, his heart in his throat. His first instinct told him to rip the wretched Dwarf off of her…until he remembered how fond Tauriel had been of him. For her sake alone would he resist the impulse. Instead, he dropped to his knees on her other side and felt against all hope for a pulse at her neck. Nothing.

The world seemed to fall away from him in that moment – no more cold, no more damp, not even air to breathe. How had this happened? It never should have happened! Why, oh why, had he not been here to protect her? Was duty to his kingdom truly more important than duty to his closest friend? By choosing the former over the latter, he had condemned her, too.

Grief overwhelmed him, but he would not show it here. No tears now – not in front of this Dwarf who had somehow secured more of Tauriel's heart in a day than Legolas had in six centuries. The Prince reached out to clasp her hand and squeezed so hard it would have been painful, if only she had been alive to feel it.

Only then did Legolas also notice Bolg's decapitated corpse not far away, and hot satisfaction flared briefly in his chest. At least someone had finally taken care of that filth! Although, judging by the gross mutilation, he presumed it wasn't the Dwarf's personal handiwork.

The Elf gazed back at his fellow archer now, the Dwarf as open in his sorrow as Legolas was reserved. Kili, he recalled at last; that was his name. Yet the silence between them grew ever more awkward as the minutes ticked by, and finally, the two warriors could ignore each other no longer.

"Who was he?" Legolas asked of the fallen Dwarf.

"My brother," Kili gasped, barely intelligible through his tears. "I did everything I could to help both of them, I swear! But it wasn't enough."

He raised his head, eyes bloodshot, and looked at Legolas as though just seeing him for the first time. But then he started in surprise, visibly making the connection of this Elf's identity in the grand scheme of Middle Earth; and raw fear suddenly shone behind his tears.

After a struggle to moderately compose himself, the Dwarf stammered miserably, "I am sorry about what happened to your father. Is he…alive?"

"Last I heard, yes." Legolas spoke gravely, for this was absolutely the last thing he wanted to discuss right now. He still worried for his father after all, in spite of the healer's optimism. And in light of everything else that had happened, he couldn't bear to even think of what his father's death would mean, should the worst occur. If Thranduil died, Legolas himself would inherit a load of kingly responsibilities that he now realized he was not prepared for.

"That shot was an accident," Kili went on, the words pleading. "Thorin never meant for it to actually hit him."

"I was not there to pass judgment," the Elf replied with all the stoicism he could muster. "And I am not the one you will need to convince."

Kili grimaced, choking on another sob. "Dain says my uncle is dead, too."

Legolas nodded. "I know."

He had seen that corpse, and the Dwarves gathered grieving around it, as well. Surely they would come here to collect their young prince soon enough. _Prince._ Legolas' train of thought came to an abrupt halt there, and now he looked with new regard upon this weeping Dwarf who was little more than a child even in their mortal reckoning.

"You are King under the Mountain now. Is that not so?"

In the depths of his grief, Kili obviously hadn't thought that far ahead; but now an avalanche of implications came crashing down on top of him. Rather than eliciting more tears, the Elf's words sent a cold numbness creeping over every inch of Kili's body, more chilling than any external weather he had ever known.

Too distraught to speak, the new King under the Mountain merely bowed his head in answer.

* * *

Despite his increasing exhaustion, Legolas worked ceaselessly through the night to address whatever needs might require the attention of an Elven Prince – whether it was organizing hunting parties to track down the remaining Orcs, making proper arrangements for the fallen, or setting up small healing camps across the city and ensuring that all of them were sufficiently stocked with supplies. Anything, really, to keep him from dwelling too long on all that had transpired in the last twenty-four hours.

Dawn had just broken on the horizon when a voice calling out from behind made him stop and turn.

"Are you King Thranduil's son?"

"I am, yes."

Legolas recognized Bard the Dragonslayer, of course; but had Bard really not known who Legolas was, back when they had spoken on the lakeshore? The Greenwood's King and Prince resembled one another so much that virtually everyone who saw them guessed their relation.

"And how is your father?"

The Elf passed a weary hand over his eyes. He was quickly tiring of this question; that intrepid little Hobbit had inquired the same thing of him less than an hour ago.

"He is alive, and apparently, his condition is stable. But the healers will tell me little more than that, and I have not yet been permitted to see him." He tilted his head to one side, curious. "You seem to be genuinely concerned for his welfare."

Bard ignored the suspicion in the Prince's tone. "King Thranduil succored my people in their time of need, and I am bold enough to consider him my friend – regardless of whether or not he would say the same of me."

"If he did not do so before, I imagine he will in the future. I hear you were instrumental in helping him to safety after the incident at the gate."

"I did what I could," the bargeman answered with a modest shrug of his shoulders. "Although, something tells me your father would have found a way to manage the situation on his own, had I not been there."

_Yes, and probably gotten himself killed for the effort. _But Legolas restrained those words, turning the conversation back to Bard instead.

"The people of Esgaroth look to you naturally for direction and support," he observed pensively. "And if you are indeed a friend of my father, I hope you will not cast aside that leadership mantle too rashly. It would be good, I think, for him to have an ally like you in these lands – someone with a little more sense than the Dwarves."

Bard offered a grim chuckle in reply, then sobered. "I believe I will remain here and restore this city, with my children and any others who wish to follow me. The rest may rebuild Laketown and elect a new Master of their own choosing. I do hope friendship and harmony can somehow be restored among all the kingdoms in this corner of the world…but there are a great many hurts to be healed first."

Just then, Galion stepped into their midst, and Legolas felt his heart rate quicken at once.

The herald nodded deeply to him, reporting, "My lord Legolas, your father is awake now. He wants to see you."

Legolas thanked him for the summons, bid Bard a quick farewell, and followed Galion back to the King's tent with all haste.

The same healer he had seen yesterday greeted him there with a tight smile. "I suggest you be brief, my Prince. Your father is still very weak, and I don't know how long he will be able to converse with you. I only permit this audience now because the King has been asking for you insistently ever since he awoke."

Too tired to argue about a healer "permitting" a Prince to do anything, Legolas simply followed the other Elf back behind the divider without a word; and while he had hardly expected to find a pleasant sight waiting for him, he still wasn't prepared for this.

The King lay in his bed, awake but frightfully pale and lethargic from loss of blood. Attendants had cleaned him to the best of their ability, but the stubborn bloodstains in Thranduil's fine hair would linger for some time in testament to his injury. Thick blankets covered him up to the waist, and above that, his bare torso was clad only in the bandages that wrapped around the right side of his chest. Blood still seeped through the bindings in places.

Legolas blinked rapidly, trying to come to terms with the unsettling image in front of him; never before had he seen his untouchable King and father so vulnerable.

Thranduil gestured briefly with his good arm to dismiss the healers still tending to him. "Leave us."

A spell of silence hung between father and son once they were alone. The undeniable relief Legolas felt at seeing his father alive, albeit worse for wear, never truly reached his face; his all-pervasive exhaustion and grief would not make room for it.

The Prince remained standing and bowed low. "My King."

Thranduil's expression, haggard and drained from constant pain, softened upon the appearance of his child. In a way, it had almost been easier for the Elvenking when Legolas was missing; at least then he knew his son wasn't caught in the heart of a massive battle. Nevertheless, his eyes marked the younger Elf's bruised and battered state with apprehension.

"You are well?"

The question took Legolas by surprise, and his answer was noncommittal at best. "Well enough, I suppose. But shouldn't I be the one inquiring after your health?"

"My health you can judge for yourself." Thranduil released a slow sigh, frustrated beyond measure with his current weakness and the inactivity it forced on him. "So – is this what it now takes to bring you before me when I summon you?"

That wry voice didn't carry anything near to its usual strength and resonance; rather, it sounded like listening to a shadow that had been given speech. Still, the words cut as deeply and expertly as any knife the Prince carried on his back.

And Legolas did indeed feel a stab of guilt and shame; he had almost forgotten how he had lately disregarded his father's orders to return home. He hung his head, unable to look his King in the eye – eyes just as blue as Legolas', but infinitely brighter and more piercing, even now. He opened his mouth, only to pause as though his tongue had caught on the words he first wanted to speak.

"We…discovered that a second Orc army was marching out of Gundabad in the North, and we arrived here with warning just ahead of that host."

"So I heard; but even if the deed was nobly done, it was still done in disobedience. And you must not use it now to seek clemency for your friend. I will not rescind Tauriel's banishment."

Legolas kept his gaze fixed on the ground at his feet. "There is no need. Tauriel is dead."

That admission made Thranduil hesitate a moment, taken aback more than anything by the alarming lack of emotion in his son's voice and countenance. "And what of the rest of our people?" he then asked quietly.

Legolas conveyed the casualty report with such brevity it was almost harsh; no doubt the healers would have applauded him for being so concise, he noted bitterly. Over a third of the Greenwood's army had perished in the battle, and nearly half of those who survived were wounded. He deliberately made no mention of the six soldiers who had died at Ravenhill.

Because they were still alone, Thranduil closed his eyes to absorb the dreadful tidings with sorrow; yet he said nothing, letting his grief simply hover in the tent like a dark thundercloud instead.

"Thorin and the elder of his two nephews are both dead as well." Despite close observation, Legolas could not gauge his King's reaction to the news of Thorin's death. Remarkable! Even with his body so frail, Thranduil's guarded emotional walls held strong.

The Prince then drew the ancient sword Orcrist, which he had wielded ever since the Dwarves' capture in Mirkwood, and laid it carefully on the table at his father's bedside. "I took this sword from Thorin Oakenshield, and it doesn't feel right that I should carry it anymore, after all that's happened. I would rather see it in your hands; do with it as you see fit."

He did realize, of course, that Thranduil personally had no need for such a weapon, valuable as it was; yet Legolas was determined to leave it behind him here forever. No response came from the King himself, however; and when Legolas looked again, he saw that his father's eyes were still closed as unconsciousness took hold of him once more.

The Prince felt an inexplicable flutter of panic at the sight. What if the news from the battle had affected Thranduil even more seriously than expected?

"Adar?"

Remembering his encounter with Tauriel's corpse, Legolas reached out and searched almost frantically for a pulse on Thranduil's left wrist. He found it easily, the rhythm slow yet steady underneath cold skin. Feeling decidedly childish now on account of his anxiety, he let his fingers slowly trail over the back of his father's hand as he withdrew to recall the healers.

**Author's End Note: **Don't worry, this won't be all we see of these two together! But next up, Bard and the elk get to share another moment, and King Kili has a nice long chat with King Thranduil. I apologize in advance if that chapter is a bit longer in posting. I've got a fairly busy stretch of time coming up over the next week or so, but I shall do my very best not to keep you waiting for terribly long. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary: **An excitable Raven, a cunning Dwarf, and a warning shot gone wrong all set into motion a new course of events for the Battle of Five Armies. AU for the third movie. I'm pretty much messing with everything here, but it all starts with Thranduil. Naturally. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own anything here. I'm just playing in the big literary sandbox that is Middle Earth.

**Author's Note: **Well, I had some plans fall through and found myself with more time to write than expected. Thank you as always for the encouraging response to the last chapter, especially to the interaction between Legolas and Thranduil. What a pleasant challenge those two present together. Hope you now enjoy Chapter 5!

**The Return of the Raven**

**Chapter 5**

Two days had passed since the battle's end, and Bard had heard that King Thranduil was recuperating well. Despite his ongoing worry, the bowman had been content to monitor his ally's progress from a distance, via word of mouth; but now he was determined to finally take his chances visiting the Elvenking in person. He waited until sunset, when the various camps were all quieting down, and made it as far as the public portion of Thranduil's tent before an Elven guard intercepted him.

"I wish to speak with King Thranduil, if he is well enough," Bard announced without preamble.

The guard shook his head. "As yet, my King has admitted no one besides Mithrandir and his own son; I'm sure you will have to wait at least another day or two."

The Elf had spoken softly – probably so that Thranduil could rest undisturbed, Bard realized belatedly. Unfortunately, he himself had never been particularly good at keeping his voice down when agitated.

"I am not here to discuss any urgent matters of state with your King," he protested shortly. "I only wish to confirm for myself that he is well."

Bard couldn't blame the guard for wanting to protect Thranduil's privacy, but no more could he blame himself for wanting to see his friend. He braced himself when the guard looked ready to physically escort him from the tent – until Thranduil's voice coming from the other side of the divider made them both pause.

The King had spoken in Elvish, of course, and Bard now prayed that he had not made a serious mistake in coming here. He watched the guard's face intently for any clues, and the other's expression wore a perfect blend of disapproval and disbelief.

Once the Elf had found his voice, he announced haltingly, "It appears King Thranduil will see you now after all, Lord Bard."

His heart warmed at how Thranduil had recognized and welcomed him, Bard rose above the temptation to smirk as he stepped past the guard and pushed aside the canvas that separated him from his ally.

The Elvenking had progressed to sitting up in bed, dressed now in a loose, open shirt with a light robe over his shoulders. Though an improvement from before, it still left the bandages around his chest painfully evident. And he was propped up on more pillows than Bard thought should ever have been brought along with an armed host destined for battle.

The Dragonslayer couldn't resist smiling at the sight. "My lord, I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you alive and recovering."

Thranduil acknowledged him with a barely perceptible nod of the head. "Thank you for your concerns. I also thought it fitting that I should express my gratitude for the assistance you rendered to me that morning."

Bard's smile morphed into more of a grimace. "I'm sorry I could not be gentler with you; I must have caused you terrible pain with all that jostling."

The Elf looked like he wanted to shrug but couldn't adequately perform the motion. "At some point, the pain becomes so intense that even increasing degrees of it are scarcely noticeable. You did what was necessary, and I could not have asked for more, of you or anyone else. Furthermore, it is not entirely your fault. I have ridden many elk mounts in my time, and none of them offer a particularly smooth ride."

"In that case, I hope Elves truly do recover faster than we mortals." Bard's countenance grew stern again as he continued, "Bilbo keeps insisting to everyone who will listen that it was an accident – a warning shot gone awry. And for all I know, he may be right; he was up there with Thorin, after all."

Thranduil shamelessly rolled his eyes before deigning to respond. "While I have no reason to doubt the Hobbit's sincerity, Oakenshield's declarations after the act were no bluff. He was ready to kill me, and I dare say he would have taken no small amount of pleasure in doing so. In my experience, inadvertent harm is usually followed by immediate remorse, of which we certainly saw none."

"Then, as far as foreign relations are concerned…is it perhaps a good thing for the Dwarves that Thorin is dead?"

"Perhaps," conceded the Elf. "I will know more on that subject tomorrow, after my audience here with their new King. But truly, accident or no, I would rather have taken that arrow myself than have seen it strike you instead."

Bard's jaw dropped, aghast. "My lord?"

Thranduil offered a weary half-smile to placate him. "My army is well-trained, and Legolas is quite familiar with the trials of battle. But what would have happened to your people, and to your children, had you been incapable of leading them in these past days?"

"That…is probably something I'd rather not think about."

"Indeed. And tell me, how are your children?"

Bard felt his smile returning at the mention of his favorite subject in the world. "It may take a few weeks before my youngest can sleep without nightmares, but I am overjoyed to report that they are all alive and well. And now I will keep you from your rest no longer, my friend. Again, I am glad to find you as well as might be hoped, given the circumstances."

The Elvenking raised his left arm in a silent farewell, and Bard withdrew into the cool night. His business here was not finished, however. After a couple of inquiries, he made his way to a ruined structure where the Elves had chosen to house their steeds – including Thranduil's personal mount.

The elk stood dozing contentedly on its feet when Bard found it, apparently not minding the cold in the slightest. Roused by the sound of approaching footsteps, the elk blinked awake and shook its massive head a little. The bowman moved to stand in front of it.

"Here – for taking such good care of your master and me."

Bard held out an apple, and the elk's ears perked up at the smell. It took another step closer and began to happily munch on the snack when he realized it was meant for him. Fruit of any kind had always been a seasonal treat in Laketown. The Elves had brought some to Dale amongst their stores, but when that was gone, it would be long indeed before more became available.

"My children intended for me to eat this," Bard whispered confidentially. "Don't tell them I gave it to you instead."

He then took a moment to study the animal more closely while it ate from his hand. It looked old from this close distance, and would have to be in order for its rack to grow so huge. Bard also noted the scars on the elk's face, making him realize suddenly that this creature was a battle-proven warrior as much as anyone else here.

Still not bold enough to pet the mount's face, Bard opted to simply rub the side of its warm neck instead. Now finished with the apple, core and all, the elk shifted its weight sideways to lean into the touch.

* * *

"I admit, this is not going to be pleasant. But it's got to be done, Lad, and it's got to be done by _you._"

Kili nodded solemnly, but he didn't really process Balin's words. Tired beyond tired, all he truly wanted to do was curl up and cry until he fell asleep for days on end. What he truly did _not _want to do was stand face-to-face with King Thranduil for an extended period of time. But, as his advisor had just indicated, it was one duty that simply could not be avoided now that he was King under the Mountain.

No one had publicly seen the Elvenking since that fateful morning at the gates of Erebor, and Kili would be lying if he claimed to be anything less than petrified. At least Balin had volunteered to accompany him as a means of support. Better him than Dain, Kili had thought, even if Dain was technically of higher standing. Balin would be infinitely more helpful in a diplomatic situation such as this.

But when they arrived at Thranduil's tent, the first thing he did, without sparing a single glance at Balin, was to demand a private audience.

"I would speak with you alone, as one King to another."

The Elf's voice was like _mithril_ – beautiful, but cold and utterly impenetrable in its resolve. Thranduil knew, of course, that Kili would be at an extreme disadvantage without the aged Dwarf's assistance, and he was counting on it. He wanted to judge this new King entirely on his own merit.

Meanwhile, Balin strove to make light of the dismissal. As much as he hated to leave Kili alone with such an experienced monarch, he also understood that the Dwarves were currently in no position to make demands of King Thranduil.

"That's all right," he said with a forced smile. "I wanted to visit Bard while we were here, anyway; I've got something for him."

After the elder Dwarf had gone, a tense silence descended while the two Kings studied one another from across the tent.

Although still physically weak and paler than usual, Thranduil managed to grace his throne with typical elegance and tranquil pride. A silver circlet sat once more upon his head, which the Elf held high in contrast to the sling he now wore to keep his right arm immobile.

Standing apart from him, Kili's exhaustion stemmed from an entirely different source. Mentally and emotionally, he was in no condition whatsoever to deal with all the political games that were sure to follow in this encounter. If only it was a game! Then he could simply concede defeat and move on with his miserable life. But no; it was no game when his people stood to lose or gain so much in correlation with his performance.

Thranduil frowned deeply at his guest, already less than pleased. He knew from Legolas that one of Thorin's nephews had survived the battle, but he had failed to make the connection until now. This was the same young Dwarf whom Tauriel had fancied so ardently. Did he mourn her death to the same extent that Legolas now did? And Thranduil himself knew better than any just how keenly that agony could pierce; deeper than any arrow wound.

At last, the Elvenking addressed his visitor. "As a suggestion, you might say that you are pleased to find me in better health than last we met. After all, a king must be courteous to his peers, even when he lies to them."

"It is no lie that I am glad to see you alive and on the mend, my lord." The Dwarf's attempt at humility did nothing to mask his severe discomfort.

"And do you say that for my sake?" Thranduil challenged him at once. "Or for your own, now that you won't have to deal with the ramifications of a slain Elvenking?"

"Neither," came the equally quick response. "I am glad for Tauriel's sake. She would not have wanted such harm to come to you."

"Tauriel and I did not part on the friendliest of terms."

"All the same, she saved my life." Kili now felt his confidence rising along with his fervor.

"And in doing so, she violated the direct orders of her King."

The Dwarf paused, processing that last remark, and then his expression shifted to one of downright anger.

Thranduil smirked back at him. "Never fear, I did not command her to let you die from that Morgul wound. But I did order her and every other Elf in the realm to remain within the walls of my kingdom for their own protection. I allowed Legolas to go retrieve her, but instead she persuaded him to join in her rebellion. She must have told him that she wished to pursue the Orcs. However, I am certain that _you _were her only true motivation, for reasons I cannot possibly fathom."

Kili maintained a stony silence, now glaring at the Elf unashamedly.

The Elvenking went on, "Did she have time to tell you that she was banished for her insubordination? And were Legolas not my son, I would have done the same to him. What would you have done then, knowing that she had sacrificed her only home for you, a Dwarf who will be dead in a few short centuries at the very latest? Would you have brought her with you into Erebor – an Elf of the open forest confined to mountain caverns? And do you truly believe your own people would have welcomed her?"

When there was still no answer from the Dwarf, Thranduil's sharp eyes narrowed.

"But no matter. It is all of no consequence, of course, now that Tauriel is dead."

Those blunt words prompted glistening tears that refused to fall, and Thranduil drove mercilessly onward. "Now I am the Elf with whom you will have the most dealings, and I suspect you will find my company somewhat less agreeable than hers."

Kili drew a deep, quivering breath to bring himself back under control. He had come prepared to talk about Thorin, not Tauriel, so he steered the conversation in that direction. "My uncle wronged you, King Thranduil of the Greenwood. I will admit that freely. He never should have threatened your life as he did, but I swear on my honor that his first arrow was never meant to strike you!"

"So I have heard – although I can't say I believe it."

"Thorin Oakenshield is not here to make his own apologies."

"No, he is not; nor am I convinced that he would do so even if he were still alive."

Kili ground his teeth in frustration. Couldn't a couple of kings bypass all this useless banter and get straight to the point? "There is only so much that I personally can do to atone for my uncle's misdeeds. I truly am sorry for what happened that morning, and on behalf of my kingdom, I do apologize sincerely for the suffering it caused you and all your people. But words alone cost nothing, so I now promise that the treasure of Erebor will be generously shared, according to the promises made before its recovery. And I would like to begin by returning these to their proper owner."

The Dwarf reached into the satchel hanging at his side and pulled out a small chest, which he then delivered into Thranduil's hands before hurriedly stepping back to his previous spot.

Thranduil held the chest on his lap and slowly opened it, allowing the glow from the star-like gems within to bathe his face in an even more unnatural pallor. Unmoving, the Elvenking simply stared down at the jewels in silence for a long moment; and while his countenance revealed little emotion, the distant look in his eyes betrayed that his mind had strayed far from the present.

"Will you not wear them?" Kili finally questioned, perhaps a bit more boldly than was wise. "After all, they are the whole reason you came here."

"These were never meant to adorn my neck," Thranduil murmured without taking his gaze off the coveted white gems. But then he shut the chest with a quick snap and set it aside. Reaching inside a deep pocket of his robes, the Elvenking drew forth the Arkenstone in all its glory.

"The King's Jewel rightfully belongs to you now," he observed. "But I, too, am a King; and I will return it only on the condition that you bury it in your uncle's tomb deep inside the Mountain, so that no eyes will ever be drawn to its temptation and its madness again. Like the grudges between our kingdoms, let it be laid to rest and never brought to light again."

"I give you my word it will be done," Kili assured him with a curt nod.

But the Elf did not surrender the stone just yet, choosing instead to hold it close for a while longer.

"One more thing, if you don't mind. My armor will need repairing, and my people do not possess the same skill with metalwork that other Elves may boast."

Suppressing a quiet sigh, Kili volunteered to have Dwarven smiths make the necessary repairs as soon as operations inside Erebor were up and running again; it wasn't as though he could do much else.

The two monarchs soon lapsed into silence once more, and Thranduil now made an even closer observation of the Dwarf standing in front of him. Overall, Kili's formal apology could have been better presented, but at least his good intentions were genuine – as were his obvious sorrow and fatigue. While a king ought to conceal such things from those around him, this young ruler looked as though he wasn't even attempting to do so. No doubt he felt overwhelmed by all the responsibility that had been dropped too quickly on his inexperienced shoulders, forcing him into a strange new world of politics and diplomacy. He was clearly nervous about this whole interview, and probably believed that there was no possible way it could end well.

But despite all this, Thranduil had glimpsed the evidence of Kili's royal bloodline during the course of their discussion. The kingly nature was there, to be sure, but it would take careful nurturing in order to draw it out on a consistent basis. Dain had determined to stay and assist the young Dwarven King until he became more settled in his new role, and for that reason alone, Thranduil hoped Kili would make quick progress. The sooner Dain returned to his own kingdom in the Iron Hills, the better.

Still, the Elvenking had been relentlessly harsh toward his new neighbor thus far in their encounter; perhaps a small reprieve would now be more appropriate.

Thranduil spoke again at his leisure, "I understand from Mithrandir that you are brave, faithful, and kind-spirited – but also impulsive to the point of recklessness and sentimental to a fault."

Rather than protesting that statement, as Thranduil had expected, Kili actually acknowledged, "That sounds like a fair assessment of me. But I'm sure you'll agree every king has his faults."

"Indeed – and well said." Ancient memories rose to his mind unbidden then, and Thranduil found himself saying, without really understanding why, "I can recall that there was once an Elvish prince of the highest bloodline who fit that same description. Long ago, in the earliest years of my youth."

"What about him?" Kili scowled, sounding far too much like his uncle now. He resented being compared to any past or present Elf, even a prince; it bordered too much on insult against his Dwarvish upbringing.

"He was widely beloved by subjects and allies alike," the Elvenking gently informed him, "and his people called him 'the Valiant' for his many honorable deeds. But in the end, when the time came for this prince to be a king, his overly-soft heart compelled him to follow when he should have led; and utter ruin followed close behind."

Kili squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable with the history lesson. "I never expected that I might be called King one day – much less 'the Valiant.'"

Thranduil resumed some of his prior sternness. "I am not suggesting that you have earned a claim to his title, for his deeds were far above anything you have yet accomplished. Nevertheless, I hope you will learn from him that a king must also govern his own heart, rather than being governed by it. You share many aspects of this prince's character, my young Dwarf; pray you do not also share his fate."

And then, at last, he held out the Arkenstone in offering. When Kili came forward to take it from his hand, Thranduil also nodded to where Orcrist lay unnoticed off to one side.

"That is for you as well. I had planned to give it to you, provided our meeting today went well. Now it seems even more fitting to me that it should pass on to you. May you prove more worthy of this Elvish blade than the Dwarf who wielded it before you."

Kili blinked in genuine surprise, remembering how eager Legolas had once been to wrest this same weapon out of Thorin's hands. Yet he received the gift graciously and hesitantly cleared his throat before saying, "I know this is a lot to ask of you, my lord. But if you would attend my uncle's funeral, I will arrange to have it delayed until you have regained more of your strength."

Thranduil stared at him coldly for a long while, the Elf's expression purposefully blank. Nevertheless, Kili stood firm and neither apologized for the offer nor retracted it. He and Balin had discussed earlier how Thranduil's attendance at Thorin's funeral would ultimately go a long way toward restoring goodwill between their two nations.

"Very well," Thranduil agreed with careful deliberation. "I will accept your invitation, as well as the proffered delay. You must understand now, however, that I go not for your uncle's sake, but for your own. As a show of my personal support for the new King under the Mountain."

At that, Kili straightened and inclined his head in a gesture that amazed Thranduil with its flawless execution. The true bow of one King to another.

Unfortunately, when the young Dwarf had taken his leave not long after, the thought of inevitably seeing Dain Ironfoot at the funerals turned Thranduil's mood sour. Perhaps he should have drawn on yet another lesson from the Valiant prince, and advised Kili not to place too much trust in his aggressive, red-headed kinsman.

**Author's End Note:** Alas, what can I say? I'm rereading _The Silmarillion _and simply couldn't resist a reference once I identified some of the parallels! So Thranduil alludes to a character of the past in my story, rather than to a future character as he does in the movie. And believe it or not, with things winding down here, the next chapter is sadly going to be my last, focusing almost exclusively on Legolas and Thranduil again. I'll see you there, and thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary: **An excitable Raven, a cunning Dwarf, and a warning shot gone wrong all set into motion a new course of events for the Battle of Five Armies. AU for the third movie. I'm pretty much messing with everything here, but it all starts with Thranduil. Naturally. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own anything here. I'm just playing in the big literary sandbox that is Middle Earth.

**Author's Note: **Many thanks to one and all for the positive feedback on Thranduil's conversation with Kili in the previous chapter! It certainly was an entertaining scene to write. Now here we've reached the end of our alternate journey through the Battle of Five Armies, and I hope you'll find it a satisfying conclusion. Thank you for keeping me company along the way!

**The Return of the Raven**

**Chapter 6**

More than anything, Legolas wanted to _leave_. He wanted to run as far away as possible from the feelings and the phantoms that haunted his every step in this accursed place! And it would only get worse once they returned home. There would be no shelter in all of the Greenwood to which Legolas could flee to escape the memories of his friend, for he and Tauriel had together explored every path in the northern forest and every hall in Thranduil's domain. But how could he possibly leave now, when so much remained uncertain?

While the King's health continued to improve, his limited strength naturally forced him to be selective in his duties; and the rest of his responsibilities fell to Legolas. It was almost a blessing, in a way. With so much to distract him, the Prince could temporarily lose himself in his work, filling the time until he finally collapsed for an hour or two of fitful slumber. He still had not wept over Tauriel's sudden passing, nor did he want to permit himself the time to do so.

Even when the day arrived for formal funerals to be held, Legolas kept his turbulent emotions in check. Of course, he couldn't avoid the cold, hard truth when so many of the dead were laid to rest before his eyes; yet he persisted in swallowing down every expression of grief that begged for release until the tension in his chest became physically painful.

Surprisingly, Kili himself scarcely wept at any of the burials, either; most likely that was because he had few tears left in his body to shed by this point. He now wore his uncle's crown, according to his right as Thorin's surviving heir; but the young Dwarf was so pale and grave that he looked more like a ghost-king than a royal descendant of Durin. He also openly carried Orcrist at his side.

Legolas stood at attention beside his father, watching with him as Thorin Oakenshield was buried inside Erebor with the light of the Arkenstone resting on his breast. It seemed only fitting that the Heart of the Mountain had now returned to its one true home. This sad day marked Thranduil's first public appearance since his injury, though he offered little in contribution apart from his presence. And if every soul in attendance noticed how King Thranduil and Lord Dain pointedly avoided one another throughout the entire affair, no one was foolish enough to mention it.

The Elven funerals, while an even more somber affair, were well-attended by representatives from all races. Not all of Dain's followers were there, but every single Dwarf of Thorin's remaining company came to pay their respects. Kili, especially, would not have missed Tauriel's funeral for all the gold in Erebor. The Elf maiden was buried along with her comrades in an open field where the light of moon and stars would reach them without hindrance.

But before they laid her in the ground, Kili stepped forward, took Tauriel's hand in his own, and kissed it in front of the whole assembly. In an instant, Legolas felt his sorrow shift to jealous anger, his hands clenching unconsciously into fists at his sides. The awful nerve of that Dwarf! What a pity that violence at funerals was so universally unacceptable. Legolas almost came forward himself to place a kiss on Tauriel's cheek, but his better judgment stopped him just in time. Apart from a subtle feeling of tension or slight discomfort, no one else had reacted to Kili's display of affection – not even Thranduil. And so the Prince buried his resentment, along with everything else.

An impressive but solemn feast was then held at the day's end, where all leaders present were expected to give some sort of speech in tribute to the fallen. Gandalf, Kili, and Bard all spoke before Legolas rose to do the same on behalf of his people, for Thranduil had retired to his tent immediately after the funerals. No doubt he was exhausted by now, and Legolas would not have been surprised in the least if his father had demanded more of himself today than his weakened body could reasonably give.

Now the Elven Prince said only enough to be satisfactory in the ears of his audience. And while the words he forced himself to speak were certainly appropriate, Legolas deliberately kept himself detached from their meaning; for he could not keep his head held high if he allowed even more reminders of his guilt to weigh him down again. He would need to confront his inner darkness eventually, he knew; but he would not do so here in the public eye. The Prince resumed his seat when he had finished his address, saying as little as possible for the duration of the evening.

But again, Legolas found no rest that night, not even after all of Dale was dark and still. His anguished spirit would not permit a peaceful repose, and guilt-ridden shadows haunted every pathway of his dreams. At the moon's setting, he stood once more inside the King's tent, staring blankly at the canvas divider as though his eyes could penetrate it if only he gazed long enough.

He took a hesitant step closer to the heavy cloth and said so softly that even the guards outside likely would not hear him, "Adar? Are you awake?"

"Yes, come."

The response had been uttered quickly, and Legolas breathed a little sigh of relief as he pushed the divider aside. He found the King casually dressed and comfortably seated in a chair beside his desk, a full goblet of wine in front of him. Thranduil did not look at all surprised by his son's visit, despite the lateness of the hour.

Legolas bowed his head as an initial greeting and then reported, "I spoke with Gandalf earlier tonight. When you are well enough to travel and all of our business here is concluded, he and Bilbo will accompany our people as far as the Forest on their journey westward. He expects the Skin-changer will also join us for at least part of that time."

"That is good. It will please me to spend a little more time in the Hobbit's company." Thranduil nodded his approval, content to play along with the mundane for now. There would yet be time for him to draw out the true reason for his son's presence here.

Legolas moved forward then, reaching curiously for the still-closed chest of white gems at his father's bedside. But his distracted fingers closed instead around a different piece of jewelry that lay beside it, and the Prince held up an elaborate necklace that glimmered like green fire in the torchlight.

"What is this?"

"That is the emerald necklace of Girion, lately brought forth from inside the Mountain."

Legolas frowned. "This should have been brought to Bard, not to us. Is it not an heirloom of his house?"

"It was, yes, but now it is an heirloom of ours – a very fine gift to the Lords of the Greenwood from the new King of Dale."

When his son's perplexity remained, Thranduil elaborated, "Bard meant for these gems to represent the ongoing friendship between our peoples, and in all good faith, I could not refuse him. To tell the truth, I do believe he was glad to give them away. He did not look at all comfortable when he came to me with them in hand – at least, not until I had accepted his generous present." The Elvenking allowed for a contemplative pause before remarking, "They would look well on you, I think, should you ever find an occasion to wear them."

"I don't imagine that's likely to happen anytime soon." Legolas set emeralds down again, subdued and suddenly disinterested in their beauty; his sorrow still ran too deep for him to even think about any sort of revelry in the near future. If anything, he felt even more exhausted now than he had the last time he'd spoken with his father in private, even though he had slept a bit since then.

"It is still early, of course," Thranduil went on, "but I do believe there may be hope for the young King under the Mountain. If nothing else, he seems much more inclined to work with his neighbors, rather than against them as his uncle did – so far. What do you make of him, Legolas?"

"I think he will not be immune to the stubbornness of his race, which is bound to lead to some difficulties over time." The younger Elf sighed heavily. "With two novice kings now on her borders, it is fortunate our realm doesn't have one as well."

The King's eyebrows rose in surprise. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've come to realize that I make a far better Prince than a King – and that I truly am grateful you are alive."

But rather than acknowledging that admission, Thranduil finally voiced what his keen eyes had observed ever since his heir's arrival. "I have never seen you this weary before, _ion-nin_. You look as though you have hardly slept since the battle."

Legolas dropped his eyes to avoid the other's gaze and answered evasively, "There is much work to be done."

"A King's work is never finished," his father empathized succinctly. "Tell me, is it really such a trial to wear the crown for a few short days?"

For a long moment, Legolas could find no words to answer. He began pacing in the limited space available to him, opening and closing his mouth several times as his voice continued to fail him. But where else could he shed these struggles of recent days, if not here in the privacy of a royal shelter while the rest of the world slept? And who else would better understand his woes than one who had himself been King for a full age of Middle Earth?

"I have lost soldiers under my command before," he divulged at last, his tone hushed, "but only when we were all acting together upon your orders. Now, for the first time, it is _my_ orders that have sent so many of our people to their deaths."

The Prince ceased his restless pacing before adding, like a confession, "I sent a handful of soldiers with Tauriel to Ravenhill. They didn't want to go, and only did so because I commanded them. None of them made it back alive. How am I any less responsible for their deaths than the Orcs who cut them down?"

"Do you hold me accountable for all the minor injuries you've sustained while on patrol over the years?" Thranduil countered evenly.

"No, of course not! Everyone knows that regular patrols are a diligence which must be strictly observed, and common dangers cannot be separated from that duty. In ordering those soldiers to Ravenhill, I purposefully exposed them to even greater peril than the rest of the army faced. I only did what seemed best to me at the time…but I should have known that I had doomed them all. Tauriel, too. Maybe, if I had been there myself, she could have been saved."

"You could not be in two places at once, Legolas, and you were right to give your attention to the majority of our people. That is why you delegated the defense of Ravenhill to others, although I cannot say that I would have done the same in your position."

"No," Legolas conceded, "you would have given thought to Elven lives first and foremost, above all others. But what if I hadn't sent them? What if they had remained in Dale and survived, while Thorin and both of his nephews fell at Ravenhill unaided? Would I now blame myself for the ending of Durin's bloodline instead?" He felt his voice growing desperate now, hopeless and despairing. "If this is the burden of kingship, then I do not want it. Please, Adar, can you not take it from me?"

Thranduil regarded his successor with something akin to pity, yet no such emotion infiltrated his words as he replied, "I cannot shield you from your birthright, my child, nor would I do so even if I could. It was good for our people that you arrived at the battle when you did. Your leadership was dearly needed, and you did well."

Such rare words of affirmation chipped away at the walls of Legolas' resistance even further. He couldn't recall how many centuries it had been since he'd last done this, but the Prince came forward and sat on the ground at his father's feet, resting his weary head upon the elder's knees. Thranduil made neither comment nor complaint; yet he seemed to remember the childish ritual as well, because his hand moved almost of its own accord to stroke through his son's hair. Legolas allowed his eyelids to drift shut for a moment, reflecting suddenly on how his father's rings used to catch in his hair, back when he was an unruly Elfling and not as meticulously groomed as a prince should be.

The silence stretched long yet comfortable between them, until Thranduil finally spoke again. "I am sorry about Tauriel…but it grieves me even more to know what pain her death must cause you."

Legolas' throat tightened, and he stared without blinking into a dark corner of the tent, battling even now to hold his tears at bay. He feared to put his next question into words, uncertain of what it might do to this fragile moment; but ask he must, if ever his soul was to find its peace again. Between his distress and his exhaustion, it was amazing he could get his voice to function properly.

"Adar – when my mother died, how long did you mourn for her?"

The hand on his head abruptly ceased its movement, and Legolas was at once aware of the tension in his sire's limbs. The stillness became oppressive, like a cloying mist, until the Prince felt that surely it would suffocate him. But then a solemn answer reached him from above, so quiet that his ears had to strain to catch the words.

"I have never stopped mourning."

Legolas froze completely, not daring even to breathe. For while he could not see his father's face, the shocking sorrow and vulnerability he heard in the King's voice spoke more loudly than any war cry.

Thranduil surprised him even more by explaining, "Not a single moment passes, waking or dreaming, in which I can forget her. Even if I sometimes wish that I could."

No effort, however valiant, could restrain Legolas' tears now. He let them fall freely, thinking both of his mother and of Tauriel. He still strove to be quiet and perhaps hide the expression of his sorrow, yet he could not conceal the changes in his breathing which inevitably betrayed him. And when that same familiar hand returned to tenderly massage the nape of his neck, Legolas finally abandoned all pretense and wept aloud in the full bitterness of his grief, lamenting the loss of so much life while he clung to his father's knees. Thranduil neither drew him closer nor pushed him away.

"My lord Thranduil?"

The Elven Prince jerked, ready to jump to his feet at the sound of Galion's voice calling from the other side of the divider. He would have risen at once, except that the hand on his neck tightened with unexpected force to hold him in place; and so Legolas stayed where he was, noting distantly that such strength must bode well for his father's recovery.

"Not now, Galion," Thranduil sternly reprimanded his herald. "Whatever business brings you here may wait for the dawn; until then, I am not to be disturbed."

"Of course, my King. Forgive my interruption."

When he was sure that the unseen intruder had gone, the Elvenking refocused his attention on Legolas.

"You need desperately to rest," he gently admonished his child, once more smoothing the sunshine locks that lay spread across his lap. "Go sleep, and do not wake until you are truly ready. I shall look to all affairs tomorrow, and see to it that you are left in peace."

Legolas didn't argue against that proposal. Instead he breathed deeply, trying to gather up the tattered scraps of his composure; after that overdue release of emotions, he felt as though he could fall asleep right here and now. He really was _so _tired. All the same, he forced himself to stand, and this time Thranduil permitted it, now that the action wasn't so abrupt.

The Prince opened his mouth, suddenly unsure if words of gratitude or repentance would be more appropriate in the wake of such a display; thankfully, the King spoke first.

"But before you go, you must stay a little while longer and share a goblet of wine with me. Not to drown our sorrows or our struggles, but to share in them for a change."

His father held out a newly-filled chalice, looking at him expectantly; Legolas simply nodded in agreement and accepted the drink with a weary, melancholy smile.

**The End **


End file.
